Wake You Tomorrow
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: Death is like a chain; interwoven and inescapable. But sometimes it has a happy ending as well. Not a Reichenbach story.
1. Parted

**Title taken from Cat Steven's 'Lady D'arbanville'.**

**Warnings: Major character deaths, blood, suicide. No spoilers for Series 2. 221B drabble style.**

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><p><strong>Wake You Tomorrow. <strong>

John sees Mrs Hudson die.

It's completely by accident, actually. The whole thing is just one big, horrific accident.

That doesn't make it any better.

She's walking down the stairs with a bundle of washing and talking nonstop, as she always does. John's leaning in the doorway, talking back when he can get a word in edgeways and thinking about how Sherlock should be back within an hour.

It's a tiny inequality in the surface she's standing on, a combination of ill-fitting shoes and terrible, terrible luck, and then gravity does the rest. For him there's no slow motion, no moment where he leans forwards to try and reach her in time, nothing.

One moment she's there and the next she isn't.

It's absurdly fast, and he calls down anxiously, worried she will have put her hip out, but not reaching that stage where his heart rises in his throat much faster than it should and tumbles him into panic.

He's expecting minor cuts and bruises, but when she doesn't answer he hurries down the stairs. They don't betray him, they only tripped her, only her, and it's like a joke laughing at him.

He thinks it would be something much less than this; something he, a doctor, could reverse. Nothing could have prepared him for a broken neck and back.

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><p>Sherlock sees John die.<p>

They're laughing, giggling, only not at a crime scene. Together. On the street, together, with no case. He's not unhappy about that – nowadays he can get by without them, so long as John's there.

The fact he isn't working lulls him into a false sense of security. He thinks it's safe in daylight, with the rest of the world so far away; just like a child.

John stops laughing, but Sherlock thinks nothing of it – they'd been reaching a natural stop anyway. He's still standing, slightly hunched with laughter, and Sherlock stands facing him, the grin still on his face.

Suddenly he spots something on John's lip, a fleck of blood.

"You've cut your lip," he says, leaning forwards to wipe it away. John leans forwards too, at first the right amount, and then further until he topples past and away from Sherlock's outstretched hands and crumples onto the street like a dropped rag.

Part of his brain has time to wonder just how a sniper managed the shot before his whole mind shuts down in a scream of disbelief and pain that has him falling to his knees. People are shouting, but he's not, not registering the red that's spattered in a fine mist across his shirt and is still falling from John's back like blossoms.

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><p>Mycroft sees Sherlock die.<p>

He's been seeing it for months, screaming towards him like a train he's ignored because he can't quite bear to watch. After John it had always been inevitable.

He tries, of course. He sets up watch, supports his brother, does everything possible, but it isn't enough.

The worst thing is that he had never expected it to be.

Suicide has been impossible for his brother, at least in a way; Mycroft's been too close, has too many people on the job, including one in the flat – the rows and screaming matches still echo in his head. So Sherlock goes, as always, to extreme lengths. He hacks everything, communications, cameras; even landlines fail.

It has taken him months of work just to be able to kill himself.

The CCTV Mycroft's watching clicks back on, the person in the flat given his delayed instructions, just as Sherlock jumps. From the roof, no less. He falls lightly, a blurred image that Mycroft can't bring himself to look away from that shatters like glass on the pavement. After it's over he buries his face in his hands and cries. The realisation hits him that soon he will be waiting in a hospital, just as he always had when Sherlock did stupid things.

Only this time he'll waiting to collect a body.

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><p>Anthea sees Mycroft die.<p>

She's always known she might – they have dangerous jobs, after all – but after Sherlock the man throws himself into his work so hard she's convinced it's going to kill him one day. Some people lose heart when someone dies, and some carry on. Mycroft somehow manages to do both.

Her name actually is Anthea – call that time with the doctor a double bluff – and Mycroft shouts it this day.

"Anthea! I need those files."

He doesn't usually speak so harshly, but she ignores it, hurrying to bring the required material. A lot is at stake, as always, and everyone's rushed.

"Here you are, sir," she says. He nods and takes them, waving a hand to dismiss her, but this time she doesn't go right away. He looks…strange. There's a fine sheen of bright sweat across his brow and upper lip, and every now and then his arm twitches and he winces irritably, almost subconsciously.

"Are you alright, sir?" she says, holding back.

"Leave me alone." His voice his high and breathy, he's obviously in discomfort, so she waits. He sighs. "I'm just so tired…"

It begins to dawn on her in the form of panic just as he jerks and falls over the desk, choking; cardiac arrest. Such a standard case it's like it's from a book.

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><p>Lestrade sees Anthea die.<p>

He doesn't know her name at the time; he's called to the scene of a shooting that looks like assassination and he doesn't have time for seemingly unimportant details. His car, by chance, is the first to get there, and the officers with him start to disperse the crowd.

Her hair's spread over the pavement, blood dripping through her mouth and her eyes staring straight upwards. He shudders, moves forwards reluctantly.

She looks young – no more than thirty-five – and he thinks that, perhaps, he's getting too old for this. He misses Sherlock and John; everything seems harder without them. Like this, for instance – he doesn't hold out much hope of ever catching the culprit. There will be no evidence anyone he knows will be able to pick up.

He bends down to take a closer look at the body, and as he leans forwards he sees her face twitch. The horror steels over him that she's still alive, still breathing with three gaping holes in her chest.

He takes a deep breath to call for an ambulance, to call for a doctor, anyone who can help her, but already it's too late, and she's gone.

He won't find out until later just how important she was; government. For now she's just another frightened person strewn with bullets.

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><p>Sally sees Lestrade die.<p>

The last years have been hard on him, and she's glad he's retiring, finally. Too many deaths, too many torn people. She's not yet feeling it herself, apart from around the edges of her mind when she can't sleep at night.

She laughs and talks with the rest of them; half of Scotland Yard has turned out to wish him goodbye, and even if it's missing the odd face she still enjoys herself. They drink too much, eat nibbles and reminisce about times of hilarity, times probably embellished beyond repair, but that pretty much goes with the criteria of 'anecdote'.

Slowly everyone trickles away, twos and threes, until it's just her, Anderson and four young lads still drinking in the corner. Anderson hugs Lestrade and wishes him luck, then goes to help pack everything up. Lestrade says he wants to go now, and she follows him outside.

"I guess this is goodbye."

He smiles – he looks so much older and younger than she remembers, the two perspectives flitting in her mind – and claps her on the back.

He checks the traffic before crossing the road; he always does, and he isn't drunk. She waves at him from the pavement.

No-one could know a car would run a red light at that moment and leave them both broken.

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><p>Molly sees Sally die.<p>

They meet at John's funeral and never really lose contact. It turns out they have a couple of mutual colleagues, and the friendship doesn't end, even when those groups grow apart. For over ten years they get closer, more open with each other.

Molly once rings Sally in the middle of the night because she's been burgled – it's like calling the police and a friend at the same time – and to be fair, the sergeant comes as soon as she can.

Molly's there when Sally had gets married, and when her parents die and her husband divorces her. Sally does the same, goes to Molly's baby shower, her subsequent wedding – they do things in the wrong order – and even helps pick out a good school for her son.

Sally's gone through a lot, but Molly gets used to thinking she can survive pretty much anything. That's why the diagnosis comes as such a shock.

There'd been headaches, random spells of dizziness, nothing anyone would have suspected. Then a chance test shows up something and then the whole world spirals downwards, leaving her feeling two steps behind everyone else.

It's so fast – a month, two, and then she's sitting by Sally's bedside, holding her hand, and waiting for death. When it comes all she can feel is blank.

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><p>Anderson sees Molly die.<p>

He knows she was a good friend of Sally's; they track him down when she gets ill. She has something fast moving and fatal apparently, only hours left, but she's surprisingly perky. They get him to contact her son, but he's in America and won't get back in time. She talks to him on the phone for a little, but eventually has to hang up.

It seems the decent thing to do; sit and talk for a few hours. He has too much time on his hands anyway, and it's hard moving around with his dodgy knee nowadays.

Molly is bright, he finds; he wishes Sally had introduced them. She doesn't have many regrets either, less than he will have when he goes.

She trails off around the topic of flowers, a topic he wasn't entirely sure how they'd got onto. A nurse comes in and asks him if he wants to leave but, he's acting on the wishes of her son so they let him stay.

She goes without him even realising, and then he sits back and lets the world flow around him, thinking that maybe he will be the only one to die alone. It seems likely – but he vows that from now on, when it comes to living, he will do his best.

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><p><strong>Written in my post-Reichenbach angst haze. I'm sorry.<strong>

**Reviews**** welcome, thanks for reading.**


	2. Reunited

**I added something on a prompt from Top Hats and Other Items. Hopefully this story's more interesting now.**

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><p>Mrs Hudson is the first to arrive.<p>

She's not exactly sure where she arrives; she only knows she does. That's alright; the place is warm and comfortable, and it looks just a bit like a waiting room. There's no entrance, no exit, no reception desk, but there is a row of comfy blue chairs set out in such a way that reminds her of the dentist's waiting area back in London.

The last thing she remembers is slipping on the stairs. At least, that's what she thinks happened. She was talking to John, the dear, and her hip was playing up a little, and then she'd just lost her balance and fallen. She'd thought she must have been knocked out, but the waiting room tells her otherwise.

She's dead then. Well. No use crying over spilt milk.

She feels better than she has in years; her hip is quiet at last, and her back doesn't ache at all. When she looks at her hands she sees how smooth they are, and realises she must be younger than she had been when she'd fallen. How long ago had it been now? She doesn't know.

Mrs Hudson is a practical woman, so she sits down in one of the blue chairs to wait, even though she doesn't know how long it will be.

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><p>John is second to arrive.<p>

He sees Mrs. Hudson first, sitting looking at the ceiling – or at least, where the ceiling should be. There doesn't seem to be any sort of roof, although he can make out four walls and a misty sort of floor, with a row of chairs that remind him of a waiting room. She looks young – no more than thirty – and her hair is soft and curly.

"John," she says gently. "I'd hoped I wouldn't see you for longer than this."

It registers in a scream of noise rocketing inside his head – he's dead. Mrs Hudson had been dead for a couple of years, and now he's with her. What had happened to him? He'd been with Sherlock, they'd been laughing…

He falls to his knees with a groan, and Mrs Hudson reached for him gently, rubbing his back. Sherlock's still down there, millions of miles away from him, all because John was too stupid to move away from a single shot.

"It's alright," she whispers. "All we have to do is wait."

John begins to cry, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing ferociously. It doesn't hurt. Nothing _hurts_, except the knowledge Sherlock is so far away from him.

He wants to tell himself Sherlock will get over it, but he knows better.

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><p>Sherlock is third to arrive.<p>

He'd been expecting death, but he has to admit he hadn't anticipated this. A waiting room? How unoriginal.

The thoughts are wiped from his mind when he sees John, who's already standing up from his chair and running towards him. It takes only a second and then John throws his arms around Sherlock's neck and holds him closely. Sherlock smells his familiar smell, realises John looks perhaps ten years younger than he had been when he'd…died…

"I waited so long," Sherlock chokes out. "Mycroft wouldn't let me…"

"You shouldn't have," John murmurs, holding him tighter. They're both crying. "You should have moved on, you should have…"

Sherlock cuts him off, standing back a pace. "I couldn't do it John, I just couldn't."

"How did you do it?" The strain in John's voice is all too much for him to handle; tears are flowing again.

"I jumped."

John shakes his head – he doesn't look angry, but…Sherlock thinks maybe he should have waited a little longer. His emotions are confused and mixed up. Perhaps death just has that effect.

"You know," John says. "You don't look a day older than the day we met."

Sherlock smiles a little. Mrs Hudson stands up and, shaking her head, moves towards them over the misty floor.

"Oh, you are silly boys…"

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><p>Mycroft is fourth.<p>

He appears quite suddenly, still with his hand curled in the action of holding a pen, and knows what has happened straight away, even without seeing Sherlock and John and Mrs Hudson sitting in a corner, talking. They haven't even noticed he's arrived, which makes him smile – they always were wrapped up in themselves.

He clears his throat with a slight feeling of guilt – he's left Anthea with an awful lot of tricky paperwork to manage – and Sherlock jerks his head up. Is that a slight sadness that flits across his eyes for the merest of seconds?

"You've lost weight." The tone somehow manages to be a cross between scathing and compliment; he looks down and sees he is slimmer than he's been since…well, since he was in his twenties, surely.

"I always said you'd be the death of me, dear brother." John glares at him, but Sherlock merely shrugs, so he strides to one of the chairs and sits without waiting for an invitation, smiling. Mrs Hudson gives him a little wave.

"So," he says smoothly. "Why are we here?"

John shrugs. Sherlock shuffles closer to his doctor and glares at Mycroft.

"Painfully obvious. We're dead, and we're waiting."

Mycroft doesn't bother saying he meant why they were waiting here. There's no use arguing with his brother.

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><p>Anthea arrives next.<p>

It takes her a few seconds to orientate herself, thinking perhaps she's in a hospital – everything has a slightly white tinge. She seems intact, her hands and legs and head, and she can still think, and yet she feels something has changed.

She remembers it then, stepping from her car and feeling everything hit her in a blur of movement that hurt so much she thought her heart was going to explode.

Obviously it did.

She feels a sense of overwhelming loss that seeps through her in trickles and then rises to a gush that makes her tremble. She's lost everything; her friends and family, her job. Even that book she was planning to read, that film she was planning to see, all gone, every single thing gone…

She sees them in the corner, and they haven't noticed her, engaged in some sort of game – rock paper scissors perhaps? She feels out of place; Mycroft looks so young and she didn't know the others well. Why is she here?

Then John looks up, sees her, smiles. He beckons, and she feels a rush of relief at being accepted by him. Mycroft follows John's line of vision and breaks into a half-smile, and she moves across the room so happy she's been acknowledged she might as well be bouncing.

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><p>Lestrade is sixth.<p>

He arrives staggering from the impact that had hit him, but recovers quickly. It doesn't take a genius to work out what happened – he'd _seen _the car a second before it hit him, and anger floods his chest. He was supposed to be retiring! He'd had years to go, and now he's alone and stuck, the whole thing snatched away by some stupid, reckless idiot…

Not alone.

He sees them one by one, sitting and looking at him. Mycroft is halfway out of his seat; Sherlock and John are smiling; Mrs Hudson looks both sad and happy, although he barely recognises her, she looks so young. There's someone else too, a woman he only vaguely recognises but supposes must be important.

"Wow," he manages to force past his lips. "Is this…what?"

Sherlock walks up to him and gives him a swift, awkward hug. Lestrade wonders if he's saying sorry for everything. John trails after him, just like he always did.

"It's a waiting room," John says, shaking his hand. "We don't know how long it'll be."

"Right." This is all too much for him to take in properly. "I suppose I am…you know."

Sherlock snorts, but John is more sympathetic – some things never change. Lestrade follows them, still slightly dazed, and thinking just how strange things can be.

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><p>Sally is next.<p>

She thinks she should have been waiting for something like this, ever since the diagnosis, when she'd thought a lot about life – being told you have only months left is something that makes you think. Death doesn't really register properly; the last few weeks had muddled her brain so much she hadn't even been sure of who she was.

She's sure now, when she sees them sitting together.

"Sally?" says Lestrade. She drinks him in, and realises his hair is back to only just being streaked grey. The last time she'd seen him had been that day with the car. "Sally is that you? You can't be more than eighteen!"

She brings her hands up to her face, smoother than it has been in years, and feels the crow feet that had been forming around her eyes are gone. How did she end up like this? Do they choose their ages, subconsciously? It hits her briefly that some of these people have been dead for twenty years, and it's hard to accept.

Lestrade leads her to the chairs and helps her sit down. The ache in her head is mercifully gone, washed away completely, and she's drawn into their conversation and games, waiting for something, but not needing to know what it is – she's eighteen again. Not bad.

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><p>Molly arrives eighth.<p>

She feels surprisingly peaceful, as if she's waking up from a nap that's been just the right length of time. This whole thing's not so bad; she misses her son, and was sad he hadn't been there, but she knew he'd tried, and that's the important thing.

Sally draws her into a crushing hug before she gets her bearings; Molly laughs and pulls back, noticing with a slight shock how young her friend looks now.

"You were there," Sally said, her voice trembling. "You were there by my side through it and I never thanked you …"

Molly shakes her head. "It's over now." She sees Sherlock and John and the others in the background, and knows they're waiting for just one more person now. She's not sure how she knows, but she's uncertain about a lot of things. She feels about forty – older than most of the others, but a time when her marriage had been happiest and she'd been so proud of her family. The memories are like little gems; treasures wrapped up and stored to be carried with her.

She sits with the others and fills them in on her life – they have time, after all. It's nice to sit and talk in a room that's such a pretty colour, and smells of fresh bread.

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><p>Anderson is the last.<p>

It's like he shouldn't be here, and yet, at the same time, he feels like he's the winner of a game; the very last one of their strange little group, people pulled together with forces beyond their control. He doesn't remember leaving, so he supposes he must have just gone to sleep and not woken up. Alone then, as always, but now…

Sally's hair bounces as she greets him, and Molly's there too, younger and plumper than when they'd seen each other last, in a healthy, happy way. He sees the others too, and pauses to give Sherlock a shy grin. Sherlock waits for a second, then laughs – it all seems stupid now, everything they'd said. Life had been too short.

There's a general murmur as the room begins to shift and twist into another shape, mist pulling itself apart and re-forming, again and again, until…

A door, set above the chairs, floating innocently. It's old-fashioned, with a large handle and a blue trim that goes nicely with the seating. John walks over and gently nudges it open, then scrambles through it after a hesitant look back. Sherlock helps him, and then leaps over himself.

They file through one by one, happy, unsure of what's going to happen, but loving every second.

None of them looks back.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading - reviews very welcome.<strong>


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